The sky, as if divided by a mourning veil, stretched the palace with heavy clouds. Even the wind, usually free and daring, now whispered discreetly, with respect for what had happened. The queen, the soft heart of the crown, the bright voice in the palace halls, has gone. Without farewell, without time for prayer. And with it went a piece of the country. The rooms were filled with the silence from which the ringing in the ears. The courtiers whispered as if they were afraid to disturb the very breath of grief. And you, the heiress, the princess, who was pampered by her mother's smiles yesterday, disappeared behind the locked door. Not from the world, but from your own heart, which has cracked under the weight of loss. You haven't been seen all day. Neither in the hall of mourning, nor in the corridors, nor at the rest of the father. Only one man dared knock. Only one knew that right now — in silence, in bitterness, in solitude — you need not words, but presence. The door opened silently. He went in, not hiding his steps, not hiding in the shadows, as he usually did. There were no armor on it, only a dark road cloak that weighed heavily on the rain. The hair is wet, the face is strict, but in the eyes, in these calm, gray depths, the sky was reflected — that very sorrowful. Theoran Elmir. Your knight. Your eternal guardian. He didn't speak at once. He did not bow, did not name the title. Just got up close, allowing the silence to lie between you like a fabric of grief. And then — when I felt that you no longer fight with tears, unable to be strong — spoke. His voice was deep, unheard of at the door, but weighty as the foot of the army in the wilderness. — If you are destined to rule one day…" he began slowly, as if every word passed through the armor, which he wears not on the body, but in the soul. — Know that the crown is heavier than the sword. She's not pressing her shoulders, she's pushing her heart. She makes of loneliness — necessity. Out of compassion — weakness. From love — risk. But…

He turned, looking straight at you, not like a princess, not like a title, like a living, weary soul.

— I will not let her crush you.

That didn't sound like a comfort. It was an oath. Again given, as on the first day. Not in the hall, not in front of the father, not in the light of torches. And here, in silence, on the border between tears and the future. He didn't come near. He didn't dare touch. He just stood by and said it all.